You Started It
by invis
Summary: Xander's never been good at speeches, so what happens when he decides to tell all? This is WX, darlings. Enjoy the soothing fluffiness. Bask in the fluffticity.
1. Chapter 1: You started it

**Title:** You Started It

**Spoilers:** Hush

**A/N:** I'm doing a little reorganizing of this episode to fit my evil plans. Just go with it, and we can all be in my imagination together. It might get a little crowded in there, so everyone keep your elbows tucked in.

**Disclaimer:** I am not Joss Whedon, although we have a similar skin tone. I don't own Buffy the Vampire Slayer, or her friends, or her old bike, or a pencil she once chewed, etc. Only borrowing. No offense intended. Please don't sue. Suing would be mean, and you don't want to be mean, do ya? I knew you didn't. I knew you were a nice person, Mr. Whedon, sir. And Mr. Whedon's lawyers, sirs and madams, all very sweet in your own way, and, may I say, very attractive? Yes, you, Mr. Lawyer, you stunning piece of lawyer meat. Mmm…yummy. No, of course I'm not just saying that! I totally meant it! How could you doubt my sincerity? Oh, you…saw that, huh? Well, I'll have you know that I keep my fingers crossed behind my back all the time. Yes, I do too! Because it keeps my chest out. Yuh huh! Oh, now, you don't have to be all—oh, fine then. But just don't sue me, okay? Thank you. No, don't worry about…okay, whatever. Hey, do you validate parking?

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They say talk is cheap, but I've gotta say, if anyone could further devalue a flailing currency, it's me. Yeah, I play it off as much-needed comic relief, but the plain truth is that when it comes to wordsmithing, I'm just…well, not so smithy.

When I try to be serious—which is an uber-rare occurrence—the words don't come out like I want them to. I end up straying wildly off topic whenever I get too close to difficult terrain, saying the wrong thing, faltering, which leads me right back to my comfy old comedy routine, and the important words get left unsaid. Again.

I think it's also clear that I am the reigning king of bad timing. Shockingly, nobody's ever campaigned against me for that honor, nor has my claim of superior timing-stumblage been called into question. It's widely known that if there is a right thing to say, I won't say it, but if there's a wrong thing—or a wrong time—I'm all over that. It's not that I'm completely oblivious to the wrongness of my words and the timing therein. Nope, I've got the killer combo: the knowledge that, at any given time, I'm about 2 seconds from sticking my foot in my mouth, and…the total inability to stop myself from doing it.

The politically-correct version is that I'm impetuous. Passionate, even! But I can't even sell that one to myself, much less try to convince anyone else. So I acknowledge my faults, and appreciate my friends to the Nth degree for putting up with them—with _me_—and for not hitting me too often. God knows they've got no shortage of weapons they could use on me, but so far, still intact. At least physically.

Yep, this is where I get heartfelt, and as we've just reviewed, that never works out favorably for me. Or for the recipient of my heartfeltedness.

But, see, this time, even though I know I'm not going to be well-received, even though I know I should stop—and I think I could if I really, really tried—even though I know how bad this is going to turn out, I have to just go ahead and do it. Because an opportunity like this doesn't come along very often. Oh, hell, who am I trying to kid? Opportunities come along all the damn time, but I just don't take them. Or I _didn't_ take them…until now.

Before I know it, I'm telling her. I'm spilling my guts, reliving every special event we've shared and every mundane day she made less mundane just by being there, by walking next to me, giggling at something stupid I said, passing me notes in Bio about Mr. Sanderson's unfortunate—but humorous—lisp. It's all laid out between us: the milestones and the minutia, the times I made her laugh and the times she tried to hide her tears. And the times she didn't.

And all I can do is keep going—grasping at straws, grasping at a connection I so nearly let go—because I'm scared to death. Of what she's thinking, of what she's feeling, of seeing her frown and shake her head, or maybe turn away. But, somehow, I'm more afraid to stop than I am to keep digging myself in deeper. Maybe I don't want to find out how she's going to react, so I just keep going: I just keep kissing her.

Suddenly, I don't have to wonder how she's going to react, because she's…reacting all over me. I feel her hands in my hair and her chest pressing against mine, and soon I feel her giggle while kissing me, which, okay, kinda weird, but not too surprising considering it's us here—_us_—and I'd be on the verge of laughter, too, if it didn't feel so good. But, see, now the silent laughter thing is getting me smiling, and I have to give up and pull back to look at her face. Which is…beautiful, and flushed, and there are a few tears, and, damn, I wish I could verbalize everything I'm feeling. Or even some of it. Heck, I'd settle for a couple of words.

She leans into me, resting her temple against my cheek, and huffs out a little breath. This time it's not laughter, but a breath riding on a surprised-but-contented smile and swirling reassurance around my neck. It's like a drug, that breath, and I'm tempted to breathe it in and hold it until it gets into my blood, into every cell, until we're beyond physical—we're chemical. I'm tempted to lean against her forever and forget about speech altogether.

But she hasn't forgotten. She reaches behind her and produces her dry-erase board. She writes, "Why now, when we can't talk?"

I smile, wipe my hand across her words, and replace them with my own: "You started it."

She looks shocked, and mouths, "I did not! You—"

I shake my head sagely and add, "Tonsillectomy, '88."

A smile breaks out on her face, even though I'm pretty sure she was going for righteous indignation, and I know she's remembering that hospital visit: how she made her mom leave her alone in my room so she could "heal" me, how she put her small hands on mine, leaned over, and kissed me so briefly I barely felt it. But, barely or not, I had felt it, and just as I'd screwed up my face and started to yell at her, she'd clapped her hand over my mouth and said, "You can't say a thing, Xander. I am healing you, and it won't work if you talk, and besides, you're not s'posed to."

And even though I hadn't felt a difference, when she'd asked me softly, "Is it working?" I'd nodded and held her hand a little tighter.

As we're smiling at each other and the memory, a whoosh goes through the room, and I can feel my voice return like a tiny hiccup. Her eyes widen and I see her thoughts come to the surface as she flips through them, deciding what to say first, now that she has her speech.

"Xander, what was—I-I mean, super nice and all, but why…" She's blushing—thank you, God, for redheads—and she gives me a help-me look and I'm struck dumb again. Well, dumber, anyway. I put my hand up to her face and thread it back through her hair before pulling her into my arms.

"Willow," I say into her hair.

"Mm hmm?" she answers, and I know she's expecting an explanation, but I don't know if I have one.

"I just…I wanted to say—but I couldn't, which was probably for the best, because I…can never say anything right, especially to you, and there's so much—oh, screw it."

I turn my head to kiss her hair, her neck, her cheek. To my surprise, she turns slightly, and her mouth meets mine halfway, colliding with me like she's been waiting hours for this kiss instead of just a few minutes. Then again, it's been a year, and even then it wasn't like this.

Just as suddenly as we fell together, we break apart, and I'm not entirely sure why—whether I pushed her away or she pushed me, or we both just needed to breathe—but I'm afraid that one of us is going to have to say something here. I'm wracking my brain and the wheels are turning, but I think the hamsters are on cruise control because I'm not getting a thing. But then, maybe I don't have to.

"Xander?" she says, a bit out of breath—and I'm enough of a cad to be proud of my part in that.

"Yeah, Will?"

She quirks an eyebrow at me. "You've got quite a way with words."

And for that, the lady gets a kiss.

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The End…ish

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A/N #2: I say "ish" because even though I intended this to be a little piece of stand-alone fluff, I may add another chapter or two later on, because I have a couple more little ideas that I don't want to necessarily put in their own fics. I think that season 4 after Oz left was a good opportunity for some W/X 'shipping, because even though Xander was with Anya, it was still sorta new, and, in my head, I could easily just send her out for a pack of smokes. Anyway, if I do write any more S4 pieces, they'll be offshoots from this encounter, so I'll probably just make them additional chapters in this fic. Unless I change my mind, which is altogether possible.


	2. Chapter 2: Words are fickle

**A/N: ** Okay, so, I said this was most likely gonna be a one-shot, but I have a few more thoughts, so I think it's more of a...buckshot. Yeah, that's it. See, you just shoot once, but you've got all these little BBs instead of just one bullet. So, basically a one-shot, only...not. A buckshot it is!

**A/N #2: ** Say, how do you like the first person thing? This chapter is in Willow's POV, and the last was in Xander's. Should I continue to alternate between them, or should I go all omnicient on their asses? Stick with first? Switch to third? Change up the point of view? You decide! I mean, if you feel comfortable with that. I don't want to force you to make a decision you're not ready to make. If you do want to decide, mention it in a comment and I'll put the whole team on it.

**Disclaimer:** I just don't ever get mistaken for Joss Whedon. I really don't. This one time at the supermarket, a woman thought she knew me, but it turned out she didn't, but even in that scenario nobody thought I was Joss Whedon. Therefore, I am not Joss Whedon, and I will not seek to profit from this story. In fact, even if I did seek to profit from it, I wouldn't, because I don't know anyone who ever made a buck off fanfic, and I was never the type to pioneer a yet-untapped money-making venture. I'm more a follower than a leader. And, just to recap, I'm not Joss.

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Words are fickle. You think they're on your side because, you know, you control them: you look out over the sea of possibilities, and you pick the best ones—like choosing teams in gym class. But if you've learned anything from gym class, you should know that you don't always get to be the captain. And sometimes on that one day you're chosen as captain, you look around the group of options and see that not only are all the best players out sick, but all that's left are two stoners, a girl in headgear, and an exchange student. And that's where I am when my voice comes back. I've just been thoroughly kissed by my best friend, and now I don't know what to say.

I choose poorly.

"I—I hate to be the voice of reason, Xander, but, uh…say, don't you have a girlfriend? You know—blonde, bit older than you, stickler for fidelity..." I trail off in horror, because his face is falling, and I've done this to him before—_we've_ done this to each other—and I wish we could just go back to kissing and not have to talk. Like, ever. No talking ever sounds pretty good to me right now.

"Oh my God, Will," he says, swiping his hand over his face. He's silent for a moment, and I'm afraid he's going to either throw something or cry, and I'm not sure I could handle either. We're still sitting on the floor, and the guilt is swirling around us, filling up the room, and as though for self-preservation, he stands suddenly, trying to rise above the flood.

He's pacing, and I follow him with my eyes, not sure whether his movement or the situation got me this dizzy. "Listen, I shouldn't have said—I mean, not that it isn't true, but that was _so_ not the best thing to say right now," I stutter out, though nothing I say at this point will matter. The damage has been done. Again. He undoubtedly thinks he's—

"I'm—I can't control myself, ever, can I? I'm a cheater. I'm a—you know, I'm **_that guy_**. And I know what girls say, how they say we're _all_ that guy, but I'm the _actual_ 'that guy' who makes them think we're all that guy. But we're not all him. _I'm_ him. I'm—"

"You're not," I say, reaching to touch his hand. He snatches it away, and I don't know if he's removing temptation or punishing himself…or punishing me. I stand and face him, stubbornly staying with him when he tries to turn away. "What about me, huh? I was here, too. I'm just as bad—worse! I'm worse, because I've always loved you. If anyone is to blame here, it's me. I'm a big floozy, that's what I am! Who's to say I haven't been lurking in the shadows all this time, just waiting for my—"

"Will, _I_ kissed _you_. Not the other way around, and—wait, always? You've always…what did you—I mean, you didn't _always_, as in continuing from the past into the present—"

"Oh, no—obviously I meant that I _did_ always love you. Did! I-is what I meant to say. So, just to recap…what was my point?" I'm lost. We're lost together. We're lost when we're apart, too. We're—

"We're pathetic," he says, sighing.

"Hey, speak for yourself," I counter quickly before he can wallow too much. "I have excellent grades, a snappy wardrobe and a nice head of hair, and I make great oatmeal raisin cookies." And, despite all those fabulous attributes, I can't think of a way to fix this.

"That you do." His voice is low, and I can't gauge it, and that scares me.

I move to him, and he lifts his eyes warily but doesn't move. I take his hands. We've always touched digits, after all.

I'm shaking. He's shaking. The floor is shaking, and we duck into the doorway. Earthquakes can be fortuitous sometimes.

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When I get back to the room, Riley is leaving. He can't seem to look me in the eye, and since I'm clearly not the queen of romantic observations, I come to the wrong conclusion. I open the door a crack and say, "Buffy? You decent?"

Her sarcastic laughter is no blow to my already flagging ego. It'd only be the…oh, _thousandth_ time today I've miscalculated. I walk in and she's sitting on her bed. I sit on mine. We both stare at the floor for a few moments.

"So…how are things?" I venture.

Buffy snorts. "Peachy. Riley saw me fight the floaty guys and their loony sidekicks. He had questions. Many questions."

"And not of the 'What's your sign?" variety, I suppose."

She shakes her head. "Nor was he itchin' to know where I bought my shoes. Or how I'm doing in Eighteenth Century Lit. Boys and their misguided priorities."

"Xander kissed me," I blurt out. I had not mean to blurt—or otherwise mention—this information right at present, but this is in keeping with my conversational track record of the day.

"He **_what_**!" Buffy shrieks.

I nod wearily. "I kissed him back. It was a whole…kissing thing."

"This was during the non-verbal period?" she asks, blinking.

"Yep. I had my whiteboard, but it…well, we failed the written." I look up helplessly, and it occurs to me that I should've concentrated on Buffy's problems with Riley. How much easier that would've been…

"Will, this is huge. How do you feel about it? How does he feel? Is he gonna break up with Anya?"

"God, Buffy, I don't know if he's even gonna tell her, much less break up—I just don't know why this keeps happening to us. What kind of sick, cheating, no-conscious-having people are we?"

Buffy sighs slowly, knowingly. "I don't think it's a lack of morals we're dealing with here," she says. "I think it's worse."

I raise my eyebrows. "Demon possession?"

Buffy shakes her head seriously. "Love."

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"Huh?" I say, surprised. Then I shake my head vigorously. "No. Definitely not that."

"Oh, I'm pretty sure of my diagnosis," Buffy says confidently. "After all, I've seen this a time or two before."

"Well, your eyes deceive you this time. Believe me. There's nothing like that going on here. But we should maybe look into that demon possession thing, because—"

"Because you're scared."

Damn Buffy and her Spidey sense that works on things other than vamps and…well, spiders. "I'm not. It's not that at all. I'm just…" What was that word Xander used? Pathetic.

Buffy gets up and comes over to my bed. She drops down beside me and I'm afraid this gesture might actually make me cry if I think too hard about it, about my day. "What do you think he'll tell Anya?" she asks gently.

"I don't know," I answer honestly. "We agreed we both needed time to think. I don't even know if he should tell her at all. Maybe I'm just meant to…I'm destined to be—I'm the cheese!" I choke out, and flop down on the bed.

Buffy rubs my back and squeezes my shoulder a little harder than she realizes. "Will, you are many things, but you are not the cheese," she says reassuringly. "Wait—what is the cheese?"

I sit up and wipe my face. "You know, _the__cheese_. The one that stands alone. Xander's the farmer and Anya's his wife, and there are various farm animals, and I'm—I'm the cheese." I sniff loudly, having talked myself into the beginnings of a crying jag.

Buffy hands me a kleenex from my nightstand and gives me a tight hug. "Oh, that cheese. Well, don't you worry about that. I'm a little cheesy myself right now. We can be sisters in fromage." She grins and I can't help smiling back. "But, Will?"

"Uh huh?"

"You know how much Xander likes cheese."

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**A/N:** Just a reminder, I'm seeking suggestions for POV and person for the next chapter. So far, I've done 1st person Xander's POV and 1st person Willow's POV. Should I continue to alternate, or branch out in a whole new direction? A'course, if I don't get any suggestions, I'll figure out something on my own. I'm just sayin'.


	3. Chapter 3: I never learn

**Chapter 3:** I never learn

**Spoilers:** None that I know of

**A/N:** Thank you for all the suggestions. You guys are great! I'm sorry I couldn't take all of them, but the vote was kind of split. Those who suggested multiple points of view, you gave me some great ideas. Those of you who suggested Xander's POV should be next, don't worry; I'll get back to him. How could I not get back to Xander? Mmmm...Xander...

**Disclaimer:** It would be keen if you didn't sue me. Thanks!

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I never learn. And it just doesn't make sense, because this is hardly the first time it's happened—to me, and to countless other women throughout the ages. I still hear their voices sometimes, crying, screaming, choking out the words: "I wish…"

All those women I avenged, all those men I punished, and I didn't learn a thing. I didn't learn that it's all about wishes. Love is the ultimate wish. Its pursuit is what keeps humans going. Its loss is what brings their pathetic hopes screeching to a halt.

And now it's my turn to wish.

"A-Anya? We should…we need to talk."

I wish I didn't know what he was going go say.

"We do?" I wonder if my surprise sounds genuine.

He wipes his hand over his mouth. He paces. They all think I don't know how to act human; they should know I can recognize a human act when I see it. "Yeah. Uh, you know, Anya, you're a great girl—woman, I mean. A great woman. Beautiful, interesting, funny—"

"The popular women's magazines say 'interesting' is not a compliment to a woman. They say 'interesting' is better suited to documentaries and ugly girls."

I wish this were our first conversation. It would be so much more promising as a first conversation instead of what I know it is: our last.

Xander laughs for a second, and I would like to believe that my comment was pleasing enough that he will change his mind, but he sobers again. "I meant that the things you say—that you're different. Unexpected. In a good way."

I wish I could take this small piece of wistfulness coming off him and use it to make him stay. I wish I did not know that the wistfulness was tied inextricably to the guilt. "Go on," I say in a calm voice. I think it's a calm voice. I've practiced so hard.

"Well, you see, Anya," he begins, and he is shaking. It occurs to me that he is afraid. Not just because he is about to hurt me, but because he thinks I may be about to hurt him. I still have connections, after all. "As much as I like you—and I really do, for the reasons I said and more—"

"The orgasms." Men. It's always about the orgasms with them.

"No," Xander says solemnly. "Not just that. Listen, An. I know you and I weren't the likeliest couple—although this is the Hellmouth, after all, and couples here tend to be unlikely—but I really…I've had fun with you. And _not_ just orgasm fun."

"This is where you say, 'but,'" I supply, and my voice is breaking like all those weak women before me.

I wish his voice were not this soft, his eyes not this beautiful. Because I would like to hate him. I know he has tired of me, and it isn't fair, and we will never have orgasms together again—or anything together—and it would make so much more sense if I could hate him, but I don't feel that in me. I've felt hate, and I cannot find it now.

"It is," he says. "And no matter what you might think, it isn't easy. It's just…I can't give you what you want."

"How do you know what I want? I'm newly-human-again and therefore unique," I say defensively.

"You sure are," Xander laughs sadly. I may be human, but I don't understand this mixing of emotions. Laughter is for joy and mocking, not for sadness. "But that doesn't mean you deserve anything less than a relationship with someone who loves you."

"And you can't do that."

"No," he sighs. "I can't."

"Because of her."

His head snaps up and he regards me suspiciously. "What do you—"

"Because of Willow," I say impatiently. "Because your friendship with her has always bordered on romantic love, and now that Oz has left her, you feel this is an opportune time to expand the boundaries of your relationship to include physical intimacy."

Xander looks stunned, but I believe it is due to my powers of observation and not an indication that I am incorrect in my assumptions.

"I can't…" he says softly. "I can't deny that."

I wish he could. I wish he would laugh and say, "Oh, Anya, you zany ex-vengeance demon. You're just transferring the skepticism you learned from your millennium of avenging scorned women to our situation here today, and, let me assure you, I have no feelings whatsoever for Willow." But Xander doesn't use words like that. He is a simple man, and he simply loves his childhood friend and always will, and not even an enchanting woman such as myself can tear his heart away from her.

I walk to him and touch his arm. He flinches. "Xander." He looks at me, finally, and he looks guilty and frightened. "You can stop worrying. I'm not going to seek vengeance."

"I'm relieved," he says. "But I still feel…I'm sorry, Anya."

"You should be. You're unlikely to find another woman like me in your lifetime." _You won't have to. She will be all you need._

Xander looks relieved, but the guilt is still there. "You didn't have to make it so easy on me."

"I know," I reply. "But I've been making it difficult on men for many years. I think, this time, it's just going to be difficult for me."

"You don't have to do it alone, you know. Maybe you won't even want to look at me for a while, but if you change your mind later on—"

"We can still be friends, right?" I say, not convincingly. "They say that in the movies."

Xander looks at me with his soft eyes. "They do. But I've never said it before. I wouldn't say it if I didn't mean it."

"Thank you, Xander." Now I'm the one looking at the floor. "I'll consider it. Perhaps in the future when I have a new boyfriend to show off to you and your friends. One with greater financial security and business acumen." I raise my eyes to him, and I know they are full of tears—that I am a weak human, after all—but I do not try to hide them. I know punishment, and this will be punishment enough for Xander. He may be a man, but he is not an evil one.

"I'm sure it won't take you too long." He walks away slowly, turning back at the door. He gives half a wave before rethinking it. He gives half a smile, then sobers. "Bye, Anya."

"Goodbye, Xander. I've enjoyed our time together. Except for the immediate past, that is."

This time when he laughs, it is genuine. "Me, too." The smile winds down on his face, but slowly. He steps through the door and closes it softly behind him. A tiny click latches the door behind him. A tiny click was all it took for him to leave me.

I wish Xander had been able to love me, but I know I didn't have a chance. For Xander, there has always been Willow. I can only hope there will be as strong a match for me.

In case this match is difficult to find or long in coming, I should shop for new and attractive clothing with which to entice the senses of the male populace, so that I may be entertained while I'm waiting. Giles might be a good diversion. His orgasm friend will have returned to England by now, and he'll be lonely.\-----

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To be continued...


	4. Chapter 4: Made to hurt them

**Chapter 4: **Made to hurt them

**Spoilers:** Doomed

**Disclaimers:** I don't own the characters, the show, the Eiffel tower...anything. However, I am quoting dialogue from the episode verbatim at the end of this chapter, so I'm just gonna let you know right now. Please, nobody sue me.

**A/N:** I'm super nervous about writing this POV, because it's a character I love but have nothing in common with whatsoever, so I have no idea whether or not I can write it well at all. Therefore, it's a short chapter. :)

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We were made to hurt them, you know. Made to love 'em and leave 'em, to leech the best parts of them and leave them dead inside. It starts with a witty word, a gentle brush against the cheek, a nuzzle at the ear, a kiss on the neck. It ends with screaming.

That's the way it's supposed to be. It's a time-honored tradition, part of a rich culture with a history of bloody violence. God, how I miss it!

I'm not cut out to be livin' in a basement with a useless git who has no appreciation for what I'm goin' through. I'm a monster, damn it! A killer! I don't do laundry and I don't fix pipes, and I certainly bloody-well don't wear Hawaiian shirts. This is no kind of un-life for me. They shoulda just let me end it when I had the chance. But no. Red had to step in and spare my pitiful existence.

Look, it's not that I don't appreciate that the girl's heart is in the right place. She's a sweet little thing, and I meant what I said: I've thought about biting her more times than I'd care to admit. And despite the fact she cast a spell that had me halfway down the aisle with the Slayer, I've got a soft spot for her. In fact, this God-awful excuse for a shirt I'm wearin' right now—I picked it 'cause it smelled like her. The git must've been around her last time he wore it, and we all know how often he does his laundry.

So yeah, I find the girl snack-worthy. Maybe even friend-worthy. And if you tell man or beast about that revelation, I'll put a hired fang on you quicker than you can say, "Ouch." I might be a freak on a leash, but it doesn't mean I got no connections.

So they saved me—Red and the git—and it was a bit of luck after all, 'cause it turns out I _can_ hurt things. Just not human things. But beggars can't be choosers. I was at the end of my tether, ready to ride the big splinter to hell, and I was saved. Saved by those I'm meant to kill so that I can kill those I'm meant to consort with. It's bloody sick is what it is. But a neutered dog like me's gotta take pleasure in whatever scraps fall from the table.

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We had a hell of a fight last night. Got the blood pumpin' in my veins again, so to speak, and I'm set to go again. There's gotta be something else needs killin' in this town tonight.

"I say we go out there and kick a little demon ass!"

Hey, I thought that was pretty damn inspiring. They're not even moving. Television—not like anything good's showing. Passions isn't on 'til tomorrow.

"What, can't go without your Buffy? Is that it? Too chicken? Let's find her! She is the Chosen One, after all."

Willow tugged at her shirt, and the git moved his foot a bit. This can't be all the excitement I get. I'm an animal, damn it. If I can't inspire a little more enthusiasm than this—

"Come on: vampires! Rrrr, nasty! Let's annihilate them. For justice, and for…the safety of puppies, and…Christmas, right?"

Am I speakin' to myself here? I'm practically a bloody cheerleader!

"Let's fight that evil! Let's kill something!"

Nuthin'. I give up. They're zombified. Comatose. They're—Red's not wearin' anything under that blanket. God, and that smell: lust and nerves. I can't believe this—

"Oh, come on!"

Sod 'em. Bloody well go kill the beasties myself. Be damned if I sit by and witness this. It's a miscarriage of justice is what it is—Red, settling for that useless whelp! Her magic and smarts, and she's gonna let the delivery boy here…well, I can't look at 'em.

"Think Anya'd be up for a little slayin' then?"

The git's eyes about shoot out of his head on that one. First response I've gotten yet.

"Yeah," he says. "Ya know, I think she just might."

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To be continued...


	5. Chapter 5: Beautiful

**Chapter 5:** Beautiful

**Disclaimer:** I don't own any words or characters, though I think this is a unique arrangement of them. Then again, who knows?

**A/N:** Thanks for continuing to read my buckshot. Reviews are always welcome, as are gifts of cash and puppies.

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Beautiful.

How I ever missed this is beyond me. I'm pretty sure it's beyond everyone I know. They all knew it before I did. They knew if I just looked at her in the right light, I'd love her. And what I'd like to know is how I blocked out the light for so long.

How did I miss the chance to dub her smile the sweetest one in the world? That smile was aimed right in my direction—thousands of times, and I never… Oz saw it. Why didn't I?

How did I miss it when she gave her heart to me? Sometime between five and fifteen, she put her heart in my care, even though she knew how irresponsible I am, how I should never be trusted with anything important. She trusted me with the most fragile and valuable thing she had, and I broke it. And then, as if that weren't enough, I hid it on a high shelf behind a dusty ceramic pineapple where I hoped nobody'd notice the cracks, and I walked away, whistling a non-song off key in that "nuthin' to see here, folks" way I have of avoiding blame.

Sometimes I really hate being me.

How could I have failed to be the first guy to kiss her? Sure, there was the tonsillectomy thing—though that was her kissing me—and New Year's Eve when we were ten, but her first real kiss…it should've been me. I should've kissed her that night before junior year, vampire be damned. I should've told myself, "Xander, you're a fool if you don't kiss this girl. She's beautiful, smart, ice-cream-flavored, your best friend…" Best friend. Ah, now it's coming back to me. See, that's strikingly similar to what I **did** tell myself that night. And why I stopped.

It's surprising how stupid a guy that age can be, thinking he's being a man. Only slightly less surprising than how stupid I've continued to be over the last couple years, knowing I'm far from grown up.

It shouldn't have taken a coma. I should've told her I loved her long before that.

And when I finally did say it, I should've meant it differently. I should have meant it in a "please wake up with selective amnesia, wherein you completely forget about how you're dating Oz and I'm dating Cordelia, and I somehow neglect to fill you in and we live happily ever after" kind of way. But I didn't. I meant it in a more selfish-desperationy "God, don't take her away from me" kind of way. As long as she woke up, I didn't care if she spent the rest of our lives flinging rotten fruit in the general vicinity of my head. As long as she woke up, she could call out for anyone she wanted: Buffy, Ed McMahon, Snuffaluppagus. Or Oz. Either way. I just wanted her back.

How did I not love her sooner? I should have loved the sparkle in her eyes—the sparkle I never noticed was for me. I should have loved every giggle I got out of her, every smile. I should have loved her for those dreams I wasn't supposed to know she had about me, and for the dreams I had about her that I dismissed as hormonally-driven anomalies.

It should never have been a fluke when I kissed her. It seemed the path of least blame at the time, but to think of it with that term now…it's an ugly word. A dirty, inaccurate word. How could kissing Willow be a mistake?

And when did I get this sappy?

I think it was when he left her. But not the way Anya implied. It was the way I felt when she was hurting. The way I felt incredulous that Oz, the one who noticed her light, could stand to step away from it—even for a moment, much less forever. It was the way I wanted to kill him…and then, guiltily, wanted to thank him.

She's beautiful. Asleep on my hideous couch, on my undeserving shoulder, under a blanket I found for her after spilling my coke on her lap. Under a blanket that's starting to slip—

**BZZZZ**

"Huh?" she says, jerking awake as the dryer buzzes.

"Your clothes are dry," I fumble out, averting my eyes, though I **so** don't want to. "Which is, uh, good, because you're kinda losin' the blankie there…"

Willow blushes and laughs and grabs the blanket tighter around her. She is somehow embarrassed and indignant and flirty all at once. Again—how in the world did I not love her sooner?

"Well, don't just sit there," she scolds. "Fetch me my wardrobe."

"I'm allowed to touch your unmentionables?" I tease.

Willow quirks her eyebrow at me. "Let me get dressed for now, and then we can discuss what you're allowed to touch."

Egad.

I think I know why I waited so long: because she's Willow, and she's worth it.

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To be continued...


	6. Chapter 6: Advice

**Chapter 6:** Advice

**Disclaimer:** I neither own nor pretend to own any rights or creative license over the characters from the hit TV show Buffy: the Vampire Slayer. Nor shall I seek to profit from this story.

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"I wouldn't normally talk to you about this kind of stuff—relationship stuff, that is—but under the circumstances, you were my last resort. Actually, my only resort. But no offense or anything."

"Oh, none taken."

Oops. Is that his offended look? Yeah, definitely slight offendedness. Well, nothing to be done about it now. "So, listen, I think I need some advice." Now that perked him up. Look at him, feeling all fatherly. Or maybe that's "watcherly." Either way, it's kinda sweet.

"Certainly, Buffy. I'd be happy to help in any way I can, but I don't know if I'm the best person to ask. I'm hardly a relationship expert."

"Indeed?" I say sarcastically, which gets a not-very-well-hidden frown out of Giles. "Okay, maybe not, but you're kind of a _person_ expert, and that's what I'm looking for. I have an interpersonal relationship-type question."

"Go on," he says.

"Okay." I take a deep breath and launch into full-on narrative mode. "So, I don't know if you've noticed, but Willow and Xander are acting really weird lately—and before you get out your books, no, it's not demon possession. They're…well, I think what it boils down to is that they're hot for each other and don't know what to do. Which means that I don't know what to do, either, because if they won't admit it to me then I can't talk about it with them, and I'm not sure I'd even want to because, hello, am I Doctor Ruth or something?"

"Clearly not. You're taller, for one."

"Giles!" I say, surprised at the sudden outburst of humor. Well, for Giles, that's an outburst.

"Buffy," he says, in a more Gileslike fashion, "it's not up to you to figure out Willow and Xander's relationship for them. Have they even discussed it with you?"

"No," I admit in a disappointed voice, which, of course, Giles picks up on.

"And you feel left out."

"Ew, Giles. I'm **so** not into threesomes."

"And if you were, I'd ask that you never tell me," Giles deadpans. "And you know that's not what I meant."

Yeah, yeah. I know. "You're trying to get me to admit I'm a busybody. A gossip. A lookie-loo. B-but I'm not! Giles, I'm just trying to—"

"Stick your nose where it doesn't belong? Oh, you can wipe that indignant look off your face. I'm not saying your intentions aren't good." He's smirking at me. Stupid Giles and his stupid observances.

"Well, that's good, because they are! Good, that is. The road to my current predicament is paved with good intentions."

"But you consider this a predicament," Giles says. "Why do you think that is?"

"I don't know, doctor Freud," I say in a huff. How is it I came to him for advice? I should've called in to a talk radio show.

"May I tell you what I think?" he asks.

"Is there any way to stop you?" I say sarcastically, but I can't help being relieved that he's taking the reins on this one.

"Buffy, I think it's touching that you're concerned about your friends' emotional states, but if they haven't asked for your advice, I think it's best you withhold it. That should be easy to do, since you don't have any prepared."

"Giles, I'm wounded!" I say, though unconvincingly. I'd never say this to his face, but he's right. "I want to help them, though. I can tell they're all conflicted. They want each other, but they don't know what to do—"

"They're legal adults, Buffy. I think they know what to do."

My God, was that a knowing gleam in Giles's eye? "That's not what I meant! I meant emotionally. Besides, they haven't done that yet."

Giles looks surprised. "How do you know that?" he asks.

I give him a smug look. "Because they're all nervous around each other."

"But that could mean they **have**…er, 'done it,'" Giles says. "Perhaps they don't know how to process—"

"Process schmocess," I snort. Ooh—snorting is **_not_** an attractive thing on me. "They've loved each other for umpteen years. Maybe it wasn't always the schmoopie kinda love, but they know how to talk to each other. Getting groiny after that much history is no reason to go non-verbal. Nope, if they'd had sex, they'd be nervous around _me_, not around each other."

"You're coming to a conclusion soon, I trust?" Giles asks.

"Hey, don't blame me if you can't keep up," I retort. "My point is I'm worried about them. I want them to be happy. I want them to get it on already!"

"Isn't that sweet," Giles says dryly. "So what do you want me to tell you? That it's okay to butt into their romantic lives and discuss this 'impasse' with them? Buffy, if you're set on it, that's what you'll do, but I would advise you to sit back and allow them some space to work it out themselves. If it were to…well, if it didn't work out, they'd need your friendship more than ever. You don't want them to feel you're pushing them."

I nod and sigh. "Giles?" I ask.

"Yes, Buffy?"

"You're almost as smart about people as you are about demons."

"Thank you, Buffy."

I get up to leave, and there's a knock at the door. I give Giles a questioning look, but he just shrugs, so I answer it. Anya's standing there, and when she sees me, the color kind of drains from her face and she gets all sputtery. She must be mad at me because Xander broke up with her, and I'm friends with Xander, and…but why is she here?

"Oh! Buffy," she says nervously. "I was just coming to see Giles because…"

Giles appears slightly terrified for some reason. "Ah, right. Anya, thank you for coming. I was having trouble translating something in one of my…er…books, and I thought perhaps Anya could help."

"Because I'm so old and well-schooled in magic and various magical languages," Anya elaborates.

Giles looks relieved. "Precisely. Er, Buffy, I'm glad we had this talk. I hope it was helpful."

"It…uh, sure, Giles. Thanks," I say, before backing out the doorway. "See you later."

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Is it my imagination, or did that door just slam? Those two sure were acting nervous around me. Oh well, on to bigger things. Giles is a smart guy and all, but Will's my best friend—surely she'd like to have a little chat with me. Just an innocent conversation: hair, makeup, boys, how she's in love with Xander and Xander's in love with her and what kind of timetable they're on where sex is concerned… You know, your run-of-the-mill girl talk.

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**A/N:** Just a couple more pieces of buckshot to go in this one. Thanks for reading!


	7. Chapter 7: The Big Moments

**Chapter 7:** The Big Moments

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Willow and Xander. Not even action figures of them, if, in fact, those things exist.

**A/N:** This is the last chapter of this story. I loved writing all the little chapters, and this one seemed the obvious spot to end it. If you liked it, never fear--Willow and Xander are my favorite ship, so if I write any more stories, it'll probably be them again.

**A/N #2:** There is sex in this chapter. It's not super-raunchy sex, but it's sex all the same. There is also a lot of schmoopieness, so if you're not into that kind of thing, you may want to skip it. But if you do skip it, you'll always wonder what it would've been like to read it, so you should probably just read it now. ;)

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The first thought is, "This is new and different." The second thought is how weird it is to actually be cataloguing thoughts right now. But I can't help it if it's one of those moments that's just bound and determined to make itself an entity, one of those moments you know you'll always remember because it's branding itself on you even as you're in it, moving infinitesimally slower than real time, sharpening itself in your mind. There is no hazy filter on this, no dreamy quality, no skipping-over of seconds or compromises of clarity.

Normally, this kind of consciousness-with-claws would make me mildly uncomfortable, make me wish for life to go back to normal speed, like sound and light coming back after a power outage. But this isn't "normally," and I won't question the weight of time now.

Time has been much less reliable lately, anyway, though I'm getting slightly better at determining when it's going to speed up and when it'll pass more slowly than old Mrs. Ferguson on her daily walk. For instance, when I'm not with Xander, the hands on the clock just sit there, mocking me with their immobility. When I know I'll see him in an hour or two, it might as well be a year or two for as fast as the time passes. Stupid time anyway. It runs rampant is what it does, all cruel and mocking like it is. On the other hand, it greatly enhances my sense of anticipation.

Anticipation. That's something I've experienced a lot of in the last couple of weeks. You'd think I'd have had my fill in recent years, being in love with Xander and hoping against hope that he'd look at me—really **see me**, that he'd suddenly grab me and kiss me, and then, of course, propose marriage. Hey, what can I say? I have a great imagination. And, until recently, that was all I had. But now it's different. Now the anticipation is justified. Now I know that he's seen me. Now I've experienced being grabbed and kissed by Xander, and I have to say, my imagination had nuthin' on the real thing.

But now that I've been grabbed and kissed—and have done some grabbing and kissing of my own—I can't help wanting more. Heck, I'm a red-blooded American girl, and I don't think there's anything wrong with having hormones and such. And even though I've had hormones toward Xander before, it's different when it's reciprocated, and it's also different now that we're both free. So you'd think now that we're finally "allowed" to have these feelings for each other, now that we're somewhat-responsible adults, we'd be able to just…get it on already, right? Wrong.

Now every time we're alone together, there's this…thing between us. This weird nervousness, like our being together is this huge, monumental thing that we've sworn on threat of death not to screw up. And that's not completely unfounded, because there's a high screw-up probability here, and I really **really **don't want to see us do that to each other. If we screw up at this, I don't think the friendship will survive it, and we can't not be friends. I can't live in a world full of vampires and monsters without Xander. He's my link to the past and the future; he's my link to myself. He's my reminder that I'm about more than witchcraft and slayer-supportage and big, world-ending drama. Sometimes he's the only thing that's real.

So it's just not an option to screw this up. Which means that every time we're alone together now, we turn all shy. We edge closer together until we're touching. We hold hands. We fumble toward each other and we reach out and we collide like we've been sucked into each other's gravity fields, and it's amazing. But there always comes a point when we break apart because we're both freaked out about where this is going. About the third person in the room: the "us." Because I want this more than anything, and I know he does, too, because…because I know him. And it doesn't hurt that I can feel his heart pounding when I'm in his arms, that I can feel how erratic his breathing is—kinda like mine—and that I know he wants me. And knowing he wants me makes me want him more than I already wanted him. Which was beyond a lot.

So, yeah, there's been some internal conflict going on for both of us. Hey, we don't have to defend that. It's to be expected, right? When you're in love with your best friend and he finally loves you back, and everything's about to change, there's bound to be some anxiety. But anxiety isn't what's humming through the room now; it's not what's got my heart hammering in my chest and my breath confused about when to come and go. It's that pesky old anticipation this time. But this time, I'm ready for it.

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This is how we got here: we were sitting on his couch, watching TV. Our hands crept closer together; they met during a Honda commercial. His fingers brushed the palm of my hand. My heart did a little flip, which surprised me because I thought I was ready for any touch, and our hands are far from foreign territory. We were watching a show about the Egyptian Book of the Dead, and maybe it was thoughts of the afterlife that made me lean closer to him, to embrace the present. My hand moved to his leg. His arm slid around me.

I leaned against him, resting my head on his shoulder. I knew this would hurt my neck eventually. He changed the channel to an old zombie movie. I said, "Pfft!" but didn't ask him to choose something else. I shifted slightly, turned toward him. He was petrified, I could tell. Afraid to make a move. This amused me for some reason—for many reasons—and I giggled. He looked at me, questioning, and I smiled and shrugged, and leaned back against his neck. He chuckled, and it vibrated through me. I could feel his pulse where my head rested against him. I wondered how fast I could make it race. I kissed his neck, and he sucked in a breath, and his pulse did race against my lips.

He turned and put his hands on my arms, as though he were going to pry me off and set me away from him like a misbehaving child, but he only moved me back slightly and then his lips were on mine and his hands were in my hair and on my back. And then they were everywhere at once, and they were strong and warm and possessive. I couldn't get close enough, so I knelt, leaning toward him, but then I was too tall, because Xander has always been taller than I am, so I swung one leg across him and then I was straddling him, feeling unbelievably unlike myself but more like the self I'd always wished I could be with him.

My skin felt flushed, and I leaned back and pulled my shirt over my head and threw it aside. His eyes widened for a second and then he was unhooking my bra and I laughed at the dichotomy that is Xander Harris, and this time he knew not to be offended. He made kind of a growl and was on me in an instant, and his mouth made me shiver though my skin was still hot, and my mind was saying, "Did I just make Xander _growl?_" I raked my fingers through his hair and felt the slightest sheen of sweat at the roots, which I knew would make his hair curl in those beautiful waves I know he hates.

Minutes and hours and years went by and our clothes went by the wayside, too, and now we are in this crystalline moment that will not pass any faster than it will pass, which is just fine with me, because it is a moment I always hoped for but never thought I'd have, and if I need more clarity to feel this and process it at the same time, so be it. I know that I can't be like this with him without thinking, "Oh, God, this is _Xander_. Xander and me."

Now he is waiting, and his breath is ragged and so is mine, and it's all I can do not to say something stupidly inappropriate, like, 'Let's do this thing!" So what I do say, though highly unoriginal, is, "I want you," and I can't look him in the eyes after that, so I lean up and plant my mouth at his neck, hard, and then he's inside me, and it's just too unbelievable that it can be this new and this oddly familiar at once.

He stops again, this time because we both uttered an amazed, "Oh," at the same time, and this elicits a giggle from each of us, and suddenly I'm reminded that although we've grown up together, we aren't really grown up yet, and we don't have to be. We can fumble together a little. And so we do, and it's a good kind of fumbling. A really good kind of fumbling, to be precise.

Soon the novelty has turned to urgency, and I forget to be surprised to feel Xander inside me, because I know that he has always been here, that we have been part of each other for so long that it's only right we should do this, too. I forget to tell him all the things I meant to tell him before we got to this point: that he'll always be my best friend no matter what, that he's stronger than he thinks, that he's important. That I love him.

But right now I can't tell him any of that, because I don't want to do any talking. I only want to feel, because I've never felt like this before. Because it's Xander's body making me feel like this, and that thought makes me shiver a little, and he feels it and leans down to kiss me, and the heat is almost unbearable. We shift so that he is sitting up and I'm wrapped around him, and I can feel every part of him at once, and I'm overwhelmed.

We move together, and I can't believe how much I love his body and suddenly my skin is on fire and my chest feels about to burst, and I can't stop kissing him. Then I do stop, because there is a little ball of light somewhere inside me that's growing and growing, and soon it's exploding in and around me and I suck in a breath and then let it out in a sound I didn't know could come out of me. I hold onto Xander for dear life, and I hear him say, "Love you, Will," and I feel him come inside me, a pulsing that doesn't match mine. I find his mouth with mine, and through our frenzied breathing we kiss each other for all we're worth. Until I start giggling.

He looks at me and smiles. "I can feel you laugh from the inside." His hair is sweaty and curling around his ears, and I can't believe how cute he looks, though I'd never phrase it like that to him.

"Hey, guess what?" I say in a low voice.

"What?" he asks.

I look around as though making sure we're alone, and whisper, "We had sex."

He laughs and hauls me off him, and we lie next to each other. I roll on my side and sling my arm across his chest, and he grabs my hand. "I know," he says. "I feel like any minute your mom's gonna come in and yell at me."

"Well, she always was a proponent of age-appropriate activities. I'm sure she'd be fine with it."

"Oh, sure, Will," he laughs. "Since we're over the age of consent, she'll just waltz in with a tray of cookies and ask who's winning."

I look up into his face and feel a bit fluttery again. "I'm pretty sure it's me."

He kisses the top of my head and counters, "You must've added the points wrong, Will, because it's obviously me."

"Tie?" I ask, and he turns over to face me.

"Tie," he says, and kisses me.

"You get an A in sportsmanship," I commend.

"And in the sport itself?" he asks, waggling his eyebrows.

I slap him lightly on the arm and answer, "A-plus. With extra points for technique."

"Yeah?" He may develop some conceit over this, but I'll give him that. Right now, I think I'd give him anything.

"Yeah," I reply. "But just to be safe, we'd better check the instant replay…"

He laughs and flips me onto my back, looking down at me, and something washes over his face—something predatory. I don't need to worry about hyena possession, though. I know what's got him possessed this time.

"You're looking rather smug, Miss Rosenberg."

I smile up at him. "Oh, that's just because I know you love me."

"You do, huh?"

"Yep. I have it on good authority."

"Whose?" he asks.

"Er…my own," I answer innocently.

He kisses my forehead, and I get a little choked up when he says, "Well, in that case, there's no doubt. I'd never trust anyone as much as you, Will. Your word is gold."

I can feel tears pricking my eyes. This is the reason I've been holding so tight to every second of this night: because I need to remember this forever.

"I love you," I say, not quite looking at him. I can't believe I'm still shy around him—we just had sex, for crying out loud. But there is a part of me that doesn't quite believe I'm the one he wants. There's a part of me that thinks that, clear as it is, this could all be a dream.

"Willow," he says softly, willing me to look at him. I do, and it's worth every moment of doubt. "I love you, too."

"You do?" I ask softly.

"You just said I did, dummy," he teases.

"Well, yeah, but…I could've been lying for all you know."

"Never."

His sureness earns him a kiss—one that nearly ends the conversation completely. "So," I say casually, regaining my composure, "what do we do now?"

"IHOP?" Xander asks, and it's silly but I know he's absolutely serious. There are two things Xander Harris thinks about constantly, and, just having had the first one satisfied for the moment, it's only common sense that he'd move on to food.

"Well, I don't know," I reply. "Last time I went there naked, they threw me out."

Xander laughs and says, "Geez, Rosenberg, I think I'm rubbing off on you."

"You've been rubbing on me all night, Xander. I guess it's possible there'd be some humor transfer goin' on."

"In that case," Xander says with a devilish glint in his eyes, "maybe we should skip IHOP. There's this great knock-knock joke I've been meaning to pass on to you."

"Not a chance, Harris," I say. "I may have let you get me in bed without buying me dinner first, but that doesn't mean you don't have to buy it afterwards."

"Okay, okay," he grumbles, but he is somehow fully dressed before I even find my underwear. When I've managed to get ¾ of my clothing on, I see him standing next to the bed with a box in his hand.

"Do I get a present every time?" I ask. "Because if that's the case, you're gonna have to get a couple more jobs, mister."

"Duly—and gleefully—noted, Will, but not exactly. I was gonna give you this tonight anyway, but I sort of…didn't get around to it, if ya know what I mean," he says, somehow managing to look sweet and lecherous at the same time. I grab the box out of his hands and shake it, and he laughs at me and says, "Just open it, Will."

I do, and I smile, and then I start tearing up. "Xan…this is so…I just…" I stutter. "I love it."

"I love you," he says simply. "And I don't want anything to come between us ever again."

"It won't," I say with certainty. "If you steal this one, I'll just steal something of yours to even the score." I lay the Barbie on the bed so I can put on my shirt.

"You already have, Will," Xander says gently. He kisses me on the forehead and grabs my hand. "And now for pancakes!"

I laugh as he pulls me toward the door. After a night this perfect, I can't deny the man his pancakes.

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The End.

Thank you so much for reading my story. Review if you want. And if you don't, just send me a happy thought through brain-mail. Thanks again, and big smooches to all!


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